


Time to Undress

by islasands



Series: Lambski [72]
Category: Adam Lambert (Musician)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-03
Updated: 2012-12-03
Packaged: 2017-11-20 03:44:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/580956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/islasands/pseuds/islasands
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Desire is far trickier than lust. </p><p>The song is "Sex on Fire" by the Kings of Leon. The ficlet is teeny tiny so by the end of it there is enough song left for you to close your eyes and imagine stuff. </p><p>I may come back to this and do a Part 2.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Time to Undress

"Sex on Fire"

 

Kings of Leon

 

  


 

 

When we meet I don’t want to touch. I don’t want to kiss. I don’t want to lovingly embrace. I don’t want to feel gratitude. 

I am not in the business of pursuing contentment. I want him on ice. 

And then on the fire I have set.

I want him fully clothed, doing normal shit, prattling on about anything and everything. 

Yes, I want him fully clothed, the way the floor of the deep sea rift is clothed with the dark weight of the ocean above. I want my desire for him to float unseen, covered in flickering lights, its jaws slung open, and a deep red marking on its back glowing like a coal. 

I don’t want him naked in a hurry. My kind of naked love walks around fully clothed. My kind of naked love is as discreet as something hungry waiting patiently in the crevice of a rock. Or as the tongues and tentacles and fronds of things that delicately emerge in the turning of the tide. 

I want him to feel my delay. I want his blue eyes to widen at me, knowing well my preference to circle rather than to rush. I want him to deliberately arrange the way he walks, sits, talks, lies down, to provoke my appetite for what is nearly out of reach. Not because it is a game for me or for him but because we meet on equal terms. Respect. The sexuality of that. The distance it involves. 

The fragrance of that distance will fill my nostrils.

I do not want his domestic loyalty. I want his blue eyes, as helplessly brave as a waterfall, to look away from me even though I cannot stand it when he looks away.

I want the bond between us to be so artlessly intense our hands ache. I want to gather up my feelings for him as though they are sticks of kindling and I am preparing to lay them on top of his stomach and light them with a kiss. 

I want to see that his torso is concealed by the thin wrapping of his shirt. I want to be aware of the time-telling machinery of his heart and lungs beneath his skin, and how his chest is braced for running headlong into his life. I want to know that because of my proximity his ribs are expanding to accommodate the size of his emotions. I want to be aware of his abdomen, his pubic hair, the dints of his hips, the soft mash of his cock and testicles, hidden beneath the warm fabric of his jeans and to feel mentally constrained by the belt that is holding them up. I want to watch the way his legs part when he sits down. I want to admire his ankles and their willingness to support his weight when he is dangling from a rope of silk. I want to watch him walk away and see the way his back and his buttocks reveal his determination to take life, love and me on his own terms. Hah. And again, hah!

I want my insides to reach out to him. To be full of that sensation. I want the 60%’s worth of water that is in my body to rise up, black and swirling, out of the well of my wanting to fuck him and flood my brain. I want the occupants in the barges of the mitochondria in my cells to sing about love at the top of their lungs. I want the pores in my skin to open their windows as though they smell rain coming. I want the oxygen in my veins to travel through me like the phosphorescence that lights the long crests of waves. 

I want to have to swallow. I want to feel my jaw pulsing with anxiety. I want to have to walk out of the room. Or drink something. Or unpack my suitcase.

And then...

And then it will be time to undress.


End file.
